Infants' gravemounds are steps of angels, where
Earth's brightest gems of innocence repose.
God is their parent, so they need no tear;
He takes them to his bosom from earth's woes,
A bud their lifetime and a flower their close.
Their spirits are the Iris of the skies,
Needing no prayers; a sunset's happy close.
Gone are the bright rays of their soft blue eyes;
Flowers weep in dew-drops o'er them, and the gale gently sighs.

Their lives were nothing but a sunny shower,
Melting on flowers as tears melt from the eye.
Each death
Was tolled on flowers as Summer gales went by.
They bowed and trembled, yet they heaved no sigh,
And the sun smiled to show the end was well.
Infants have nought to weep for ere they die;
All prayers are needless, beads they need not tell,
White flowers their mourners are, Nature their passing bell.

I rest my wearied life in these sweet fields
Reflecting every smile in natures face
& much of joy this grass — These hedges yields
Not found in citys where crowds daily trace
Heart pleasures there hath no abideing place
The star gemmed early morn the silent even
Hath pleasures that our broken hopes deface
To love too well leaves nought to be forgiven
The Gates of Eden is the bounds of heaven

The infant April joins the spring
And views its watery skye
As youngling linnet trys its wing
And fears at first to flye
With timid step she ventures on
And hardly dares to smile
The blossoms open one by one
And sunny hours beguile
But finer days approacheth yet
With scenes more sweet to charm
And suns arive that rise and set
Bright strangers to a storm
And as the birds with louder song
Each mornings glory cheers
With bolder step she speeds along
And looses all her fears

John Clare – The Shepherd’s Calendar (April - excerpt)

The village band crossed the street and made its way slowly among the hobbling pilgrims, along Church Lane towards Eastwell Spring.

As they drew close they could see that the elms and willows, that last year had made a green and shady grove around the spring, had been dragged to the saw-mill. It is a scarred and barren slope that now leads down to the little pool. The crowds were lining up to fill their leather bottles and jugs. Charlie Turner stood white and shivering, waist deep in water, pulling his ragged half-wit daughter Isabel towards him while she wailed like a lost soul. Mrs Bullimore had set her jug upon a wooden table. Children were jostling around it with farthings in their fists, eager for a cup of sugared water.

Hugh Lupton – The Ballad of John Clare (Chapter 16)

My sundays harmless pleasures were forsookNor turnd my rambles to the pasture brookWere in my youth at ‘Eastwells’ fountain sideWhich winters never froze nor summer drydYoung men & maidens usd to talk & playn the cool shadows of its willows greyDrinking loves healths in totts of sugard drinkOn the soft swellings of its rushy brinkFrom the spring head like winter cold & chillWere boils the white sand that is never stillNow swimming up in silver threads & thenSlow siling down to bubble up agenThere shepherds usd to sit & tell the whileTheir tales & jokes to win each maidens smile(From, “The Memory of Love”, lines 353-366)

Still tho my genius cant be reckond richThat its origional youll all agree& tho my pen is often on the itchIve kept as yet from thieving pretty freeTo tell the truth Ive hardly stole from anySave some few things from worthey mother BunchA joke from Miller (praisd as mine by many)For an old pedlar once who acted punch

If you like this Ill tell you tales by dozensWhich youll find pretty or I miss my aimTo strengthen this I might bring in my cousinsWho swear Im hastning up the hill to fameBut of friends praise I cant say Im a loverFor they like all are very prone to puffOft magazines laud books upon the coverThat prove when read most disagreeable stuff

So here Ill leave this sample to its fateSend me the ‘London’ if you take the hintTwill get you half a crown at any rateFor Ill give that to see my name in print& be as't will Ill wait & hope the betterGran poor old creature will be all delight—& as Aunt Prissey often ends a letterWhen getting late—I wish you all good night

From Helpston in rural Northamptonshire, John Clare was born in 1793. He is now regarded as the most important poet of the natural world from Britain. He wrote many poems, essays, journals and letters about love, sex, corruption and politics, environmental and social change, poverty and folk life. Even in his madness, his talents were not diminished. Ronald Blythe, President of the John Clare Society, sees Clare as "... England's most articulate village voice".
Clare died, aged 71, in 1864.